


A Gentlemen's Agreement - Pt. 2

by TheNightComesDown



Series: A Gentlemen's Agreement [2]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Fluff, London, Mild Language, Queen AU, Strippers & Strip Clubs, UK - Freeform, cute dates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-06 21:01:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17947040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNightComesDown/pseuds/TheNightComesDown
Summary: While attempting to juggle your complicated family with your new friend John Deacon, things get complicated.





	A Gentlemen's Agreement - Pt. 2

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally - wait for it - 9k words. It's been split, so sorry if it feels like an awkward place to make the split. Bear with me when I say things are about to get complicated. This bit is developing the reader's backstory, next segment will be entirely John-focused. 
> 
> TW: Description of vomiting, mild language

In the doorway of your sitting room, your brother stood awkwardly, wrapped up in your housecoat. He rubbed his eyes sleepily and yawned, clearly having just woken up.

“How the hell did you get in here?” you asked shakily. For the past few years, you’d been living alone in your quiet flat; his sudden appearance had frightened you. 

“Some chap downstairs held the door for me when I got here,” he explained, “plus that lock’s pretty easy to open if you know how.” He blinked hard, attempting to clear his vision well enough to see your face. 

“Michael, you can’t do this,” you asserted, gritting your teeth. “You don’t get to show up and break into my flat, expecting that I’m going to give you a place to stay.” His smug expression said otherwise; clearly he thought you’d be willing to spare the guest bedroom. 

“Looks like you’re the only one here, Y/N,” he observed, “so I’m not sure why you’d turn me away. I’m not taking anyone’s room or something, right?” Michael glanced around the room for signs of another tenant, but found none. 

“Doesn’t matter if I’m living alone, it’s still _my_ flat.” 

“Come on, sis, be reasonable,” he groaned, rolling his eyes. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen you. Put the kettle on and we’ll have a chat about me staying.” You stood your ground, refusing to bow to your brother’s suggestion. 

“Michael, you should be in rehab,” you reminded him. “We both know that skipping out of treatment and breaking into my place is a violation of your parole.” The broad-shouldered man sighed heavily; you weren’t turning out to be as helpful as he’d thought you would be. He walked over to the sofa and settled in against the armrest. 

“I don’t like the staff there,” he informed you, picking at his nails. “They’re not helpful, and all they want to talk about is my childhood and shit like that.” With a huff of annoyance, you went into the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove. You were tired, it was three in the morning, and this was the last thing you wanted to deal with tonight. 

“I’m calling Judy,” you told him. “Being here is going to land you right back in Brixton and it’ll be entirely your fault.” 

“I wouldn’t,” he said lazily, switching on the telly. “I’ve stashed some things in places you aren’t likely to find them, and I’m sure your neighbours won’t appreciate the filth showing up here.” 

“Fuck, Michael,” you shouted, grabbing the remote from his hand. “You don’t get to waltz into my home anytime you please. I’ve given you chance after chance, and every time you say things’ll change, you wind up dealing again.” Despite his warning, you reached for the phone and dialled his caseworker. “I’m bloody tired of this.” 

“Y/N, please,” he pouted, “don’t call Judy. She’s just started to trust me again.” 

“Fat chance of that,” you snorted, tapping your foot as you waited. Realizing you were serious, Michael stood up from the couch and shrugged out of your housecoat. He hurried to the back bedroom, presumably to get dressed before the police could show up. 

“Judy Moore,” she answered on the third ring, her voice thick with sleep. 

“Sorry to wake you, Judy,” you apologized, “it’s Y/N, Michael’s sister.” 

“He showed up at your place, then?” she asked, her disappointment clear in her voice. “I got a call from the treatment centre a few hours ago saying he snuck out.” Judy, a social worker and your brother’s parole officer, had been handling his case since he first landed in juvenile detention at 14. Ten years later, he was still getting into trouble, and his last stint in prison had ended only 6 months ago. One could only have so much patientce for a person, and it seemed that hers was running quite short today. 

“Yes, he’s here,” you replied. “He said he’s hid some things around my flat, and that I shouldn’t call you, but I’m not dealing with this tonight.” 

“You did the right thing, honey,” she assured you. “I know we had high hopes this time around, but you know how it is.” 

“You can take the boy out of Poplar, but you can’t take Poplar out of the boy,” you said sarcastically. “Funny how coming back to living piss-poor and having the same shitty friends doesn’t fix things.” Judy hummed in sympathy, having known both you and Michael long enough to know your family history. 

“I’ll call it in. Expect the police sometime in the next 20 minutes,” she advised. “I’m sure he’ll be gone by then, but at least you can have someone check things out to make sure he didn’t leave anything behind. If they bring a dog, are you clean?” 

“Judy, don’t even ask that,” you snapped. “Of course I am.” 

“Sorry, honey. You know I just worry about you.” 

“I know,” you groaned. “It’s been a long time since all that, though.” Your brother came into the sitting room, dressed and ready to leave. 

“Hi Judes,” he hollered in the direction of the phone. “Miss you!” He went into the kitchen and started to pull food from the cupboards. You knew protesting wouldn’t do any good, so you bid farewell to Judy and joined him at the counter. 

“Where will you go?” you asked, folding your arms across your chest. 

“I’m not telling _you_ that, you fuckin’ snitch,” he scoffed, stuffing a cracker into his mouth. He swiped a full tin of your favourite tea, several boxes of granola bars, as well as a few other things he found in the fridge. Fruits and vegetables he wouldn’t touch – you’d grown up in a house without them, and he wasn’t about to start eating them of his own accord. 

“Don’t go back to Malcolm’s,” you warned. “He isn’t over the shit you pulled before you went in last year.” Michael looked at you sceptically, but you knew he’d follow your advice. He’d gotten into a particularly bad fight a year back with a childhood friend, and he hadn’t left things on particularly good terms. With his bag full, Michael zipped it up and threw it over his shoulder. 

“Tell Mum hello for me next time you see her,” Michael asked, leaning in to kiss the top of your head. “And tell Dad to go fuck himself.” 

“Why don’t you tell him?” you shrugged. “He’s back at Brixton again, you’ll probably see him there.” Your brother ground his teeth angrily, stomping towards the door at the thought of seeing your father in prison. The two had been incarcerated together twice now, and neither enjoyed the experience. 

“What for this time?” he inquired. “DWI?” 

“Another domestic,” you shook your head. “Mum didn’t want to press charges, as usual, but…” 

“That fucker,” Michael spat, stepping out into the hall outside the front door. “He can rot in prison.” He checked his watch, cognizant of the fact that his head start grew shorter and shorter with every minute he stuck around. 

“Mike,” you said, catching him by the shoulder. “You aren’t Dad.” 

“I know.” 

“I love you.” 

“I know,” he breathed, pulling you into a quick hug. “Love you too, sis.” You hung onto the doorframe for dear life as you watched your brother start down the stairs. Although it angered you that he had broken into your flat, it hurt worse to watch him walk away, not knowing when – if – you would see him again. 

“Jenny will probably let you stay if you ask her nicely,” you called after him. “She broke up with that asshole a while back. Still asks about you.” 

“Go to bed, sis,” he answered, his voice echoing against the walls of the stairwell. “I can take care of myself.” 

The metal door to the building slammed shut behind him, leaving you alone in the hallway. A floor below, you heard muffled voices, raised to a volume that wasn't preferred at 3 in the morning, but what could you do? The police would be by in a few minutes, so you returned to the kitchen and silenced the shrieking kettle, popping a few tea bags in so it would be ready to serve when they arrive. 

* * * * * 

On Monday morning, Judy called to say that they still hadn’t apprehended your brother. A warrant for his arrest had been written, and she advised you to call her office if you got word of where he was staying, or with whom he was associating. The police hadn’t found anything in your flat on Saturday night, thankfully, meaning that Michael had either been lying about stashing drugs (a strong possibility) or had taken everything with him (also very possible). 

“I asked around, heard you’re still working at that club,” Judy had mentioned at the end of the conversation. “I thought you said that scene was behind you.” 

“It’s a different place, better,” you had countered. “High class, not like that run-down cesspool I was at before. And I’m just tending bar. I don’t dance anymore.” Judy was pleased with this answer, but you weren’t entirely sure if she believed you. As you fried up vegetables for lunch later that day, the phone rang again. Both hoping and dreading the news of your brother’s arrest, you answered the phone, breathless. 

“Expecting a different call?” John asked wryly. 

“Yes...but I’m glad it’s you,” you told him, stirring the mixture of peppers, onions and garlic. “How are things going with you, John?” 

“I’m bored to pieces,” he admitted. "Can't think of anything I want to do at home right now." 

“I looked you up, you know,” you chided. “I’d like to know how a platinum-selling musician is sitting at home bored out of his mind. Don’t you have some writing to do or…something?” 

“We’re flying out to Switzerland on Wednesday,” he explained, “so I’m trying to do as little as humanly possible before I get sucked into the madness of recording.” In the background, you heard a smooth, jazzy record playing. 

"What about your kids, are they around?" 

"Gone to visit the ex's family up north." 

“Well if you’re so bored, why don’t we do something?” you wondered. “I have some things I’d rather not attend to at home, too.” You knew he had called to confirm coffee tomorrow, but you might as well go out today as well – the thought of sitting by the phone all day waiting to hear about Michael made your heart hurt. 

“That might be nice,” John agreed. “Maybe we could go outside, enjoy the fresh air a bit.” Without noticing he was doing it, John began to hum along to the music he had playing. “Somewhere public, of course,” he added quickly. 

“We could take a stroll around a park,” you suggested. “There are plenty of those around the city.” 

“What would be close for you?” 

“Trust me,” you laughed sarcastically, “you don’t want to walk around anywhere near where I live.” In fact, you didn’t want him anywhere near your flat. You’d started to rent the place when you were 18, and hadn’t ever left. It was filled with memories, both good and bad, and was conveniently located for taking the bus. On the other hand, it was dodgy at night, and the police came knocking at least once a week to ask about any ‘suspicious activity’ you might have seen. It was probably best if he didn't come by. 

“Alright then, how about Brockwell Park? I’m sure the flowers will be in bloom, and there will be plenty of ducks to look at in the ponds.” 

“Sounds lovely,” you smiled, remembering plenty of childhood outings to feed the ducks with Michael and your mother. “I’ll have to take the bus, though, so you’ll have to give me an hour or so to get there. Not all of us can afford a terraced house in Chelsea or a Ferrari to take us places.” 

“Why don’t I pick you up?” John suggested, ignoring your other comment. “It’ll make things easier if you decide you’re hungry after our walk.” 

“No!” you said quickly. “I mean, it's fine. I don’t want…” 

“…me to know where you live?” he asked, finishing your sentence. “I’d promise not to peer into your windows at night, of course.” 

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” you explained hesitantly. “I just don’t live in the best neighbourhood, and my building’s a real shithole.” You waited for him to protest, saying the things every man said: ‘I don’t mind,’ or ‘I insist,” but he said none of these things. 

“Alright, I won’t pick you up unless you’re comfortable with it,” he said, not pressing the matter further. “Why don’t we meet at the old lido, the one that’s closed down now?” His voice was kind, and you felt that he wasn’t offended in the slightest that you'd turned down his offer of a ride. 

“Does 2:00 work?” 

“Indeed it does,” he replied. “See you at 2, then, Y/N.” 

* * * * * 

Although you knew this wasn’t a date or anything, you struggled to find an outfit to wear. The only time you really went anywhere was either to the club – those clothes weren’t appropriate – or to visit your mother in Whitechapel. After much debate, you decided on a knee-length sundress, black with sunflowers splashed across the fabric. You added a wide-brimmed hat because the July sun wasn’t likely to be forgiving, and a pair of strappy sandals you had inherited from a co-worker when she was paring down her wardrobe. 

The bus ride held little excitement, but for the slowly building flutter in your stomach at the idea of seeing John again. No matter how many times you rationalized with yourself that he was too old for you, or too wealthy to have any real interest in you, your thoughts brought you right back to his soft eyes, the way he had tenderly touched your arm after your manager had grabbed you. Your only solace was that he wasn’t interested in anything more than a friend to talk with; he wouldn’t get attached, so you had no reason to be interested. 

You arrived at the defunct Brockwell Lido right at 2:00, and saw that John was waiting for you, leaning up against a smart-looking Volvo. Not exactly the car you’d imagined a rock legend driving, but to each his own, you figured. 

“Well aren’t you just blooming today?” John teased, eying your sunflower-spangled dress. “Radiant as a flower.” Although you knew he was joking, you couldn’t help but blush at the compliment. 

“And you look…like a fellow out for a walk,” you observed, reaching out to adjust the collar of his shirt. He’d worn a patterned, short-sleeved button-up, tucked smartly into high-waisted denim trousers – a quintessential dad outfit, you thought with a grin. "Charming, John, really." 

“That’s the goal,” he smiled, falling into step beside you. Setting out at a leisurely pace, you wandered along the walking paths toward the park’s garden. The sun had reached its peak for the day a few hours before, but as it beat down on the back of your neck, you were glad for your hat. 

“I should have remembered my sunglasses,” John frowned after a few minutes, squinting in the bright afternoon. 

“Would you like to borrow my hat, sir?” you asked, dramatically whipping it from your head and offering it to him. John made a show of trying it on, tilting it at various angles to achieve the look he wanted. 

“I should be invited to the runways,” he said airily, changing his stride to mimic that of a runway model. “Need to pull out my old platform boots and my trousers with the flared legs.” 

“You wore platform boots?” You raised your eyebrows in surprise, trying to imagine what John would have looked like in such a thing. 

“I’m a man of many wonders,” he insisted, passing your hat back. “Quite a catch in 1975, I’ll have you know.” John looked calm and comfortable as he walked alongside you, glancing over at you every now and again. You, however, were oblivious, focused instead on an interestingly shaped tree or a bee pollinating a flower - he found it to be an endearing trait of yours. 

If he was a younger man, he thought, he might have bumped his hand against yours to test whether or not it was appropriate to thread his fingers through yours. Your hand was soft, dainty; he imagined that it would fit perfectly with his own. He stuck to what he had asked of you, though: platonic companionship only. 

“Are you often recognized when you’re out and about, John?” you inquired, casually looking him up and down. “I suppose you aren’t as flamboyant as some of your other bandmates, so it must be easier for you to blend in.” 

“Fred certainly has a unique look,” he nodded, threading his thumbs through his belt loops. “But you’re right, I tend to lead a relatively quiet life when I’m home in London. Looking like a plain old chap has its benefits.” 

“I don’t think you’re plain, or old,” you murmured, looking away when you met his eyes. Your cheeks burned as you realized how the comment must have sounded to him. 

“You’re very kind," he smiled, kicking at a rock on the path. It skittered across the pavement and came to a stop against the wall of the Brockwell Park Garden, which was just ahead. The wall prevented you from seeing into the garden, but once you reached the entrance, you got a better view. The garden paths were made of flat, jagged stones that fit together like puzzle pieces, with slim gaps between stones where tiny green weeds grew. It split into multiple paths, each leading somewhere different; a burbling fountain, a wooden gazebo, a stout stone building. The place was as charming as you remembered it. 

“I love the smell of a proper flower garden,” you expressed, breathing in deeply as you took in the view. The garden bloomed in every colour of the rainbow, while still maintaining what you felt was an appropriate amount of green. You recognized many of the flowers; dog rose shrubs, foxgloves blushing pink and purple, roses upon roses, and a smattering of violets, peonies and carnations. John followed you as you walked along the path, nodding thoughtfully as you pointed out different species of plants; which were herbaceous, which were woody. 

“So even when these aren’t in bloom, you can tell them apart from this other one because the leaves are jagged here, and not on these?” he asked, gently rubbing a leaf between his fingers. 

“Exactly!” you exclaimed, flashing him a dazzling smile. “And look at the leaf patterns here. These have one branch with leaves coming out symmetrically on either side, which we call ‘pinnate’,” you pointed out, tapping the ground beside a marigold, “whereas something like a maple tree would be ‘palmate’, with leaf segments fanned out in 5 parts like this.” You held your hand up to demonstrate, pointing to each of your fingers. 

“How do you know all of this?” he wondered, wiping an arm across his forehead. “You’re incredible.” 

“I took a lot of botany courses for my degree,” you shrugged, embarrassed by the compliment. “I’ll be teaching biology and chemistry at an upper years school in Poplar come the end of August, so it’ll come in handy, I hope.” 

“I’m sure your students will appreciate your passion,” he assured you. “They’ll be lucky to have a teacher like you.” You blushed again, turning away to hide your face as the colour rose in your cheeks. 

John’s words shouldn’t make you feel this way, you chastised yourself, but it couldn’t be helped. You felt how you felt, and you couldn’t stop your body from responding the only way it knew how. 

“Enough about plants,” you proclaimed once you had composed yourself. “Let’s go have a look at those ducks.” You both stood up from where you had been crouched down on the path. John walked ahead of you, and you noticed that the seat of his trousers had collected some dirt when he had sat down beside you. 

“John, dear, just give yourself a bit of a brush-off,” you recommended, motioning at his bottom. “Bit of dust is all.” 

“Oh, thank you,” he said, promptly fixing the issue. “Better?” You craned your neck to get a better look, not thinking about how this might appear. 

“Lovely,” you replied, giving him a thumbs-up. “I mean, not—” 

“I’ve been told I’ve got a nice arse once or twice,” he teased, laughing at the flustered panic on your face. His smile set you at ease, allowing you to calm down after your verbal misstep. 

After walking for a few more minutes, the duck ponds came into sight. As John had predicted, a variety of waterfowl floated on the calm water, dipping their beaks into the water in search of an afternoon snack. A couple and their young son stood at the edge of the nearest pond, tossing birdseed towards a pair of geese settled in close to the shore. 

“D’you reckon this will be enough?” John asked when you had reached the edge of the water, pulling a bag of dried corn from his pocket. Your grin was all the answer he needed. He opened the bag, allowing you to dip your fingers in and grab a handful of corn. 

“Think I can get some far enough to bring those ones closer?” You pointed at a group of ducks settled in by the reeds. 

“Give it a go,” he encouraged. With a grunt of effort, you tossed a few pieces as far as you could. Your hopes were fulfilled; a mallard with a vibrant emerald head zipped across the water to snap the corn up. His companions, likely his mate and their most recent brood of ducklings, followed close behind. 

“Your turn,” you told John. His aim was even better – a second pair of ducks glided across the water to investigate the commotion. The colouring of the ducks delighted you; the males had green heads and tails, with a flash of blue beneath their wings. A blue-violet feather was the only pop of colour for the females, who protected themselves from foxes by camouflaging into the shrubs and reeds along the pond’s edge during nesting season. 

The two of you were very generous with your newfound friends, so it wasn’t long before John’s bag was empty. The look of sheer disappointment on John’s face when he reached in to find only a single kernel brought a peal of bubbling laughter to your throat. 

“Y/N, it’s not funny,” he pouted, stuffing the plastic bag back into his trouser pocket. “Think of the nasty things they’ll say about us to all their friends.” 

“The ducks?” you choked out, doubling over. 

“Of course, the ducks!” he cried, attempting to keep his frustrated expression. “You know what terrible gossips mallards can be.” You held up a hand, begging John to stop; your sides were beginning to hurt with the force of your laughter. 

“We’ll have to come back another time,” you said, finally containing yourself. “I’m certain they’ll remember us. Probably never seen two people so determined to get the world record for tossing dried corn.” 

“Let’s keep walking then, shall we?” he suggested. “Maybe we’ll come across a fellow selling bird food, or an ice cream stand.” 

“I don’t think birds eat ice cream.” The comment received a sarcastic, breathy 'ha' and an eye roll. After waving goodbye to the ducks, you continued on down the path, watching out for any sign of a dried corn salesman, or even a child you could bribe to give up his bird food. Neither appeared, to your disappointment. 

Somehow, the day grew even hotter as you walked along. The fabric of your dress was scorching-hot to the touch, and your thighs were dripping an unladylike amount of sweat, sticking together despite your efforts to keep them apart. 

“I think we should…sit down for a moment,” John recommended after you'd been walking for nearly an hour in minimal shade. You followed John onto a stretch of grass along the path, where he sat down in a pool of shade beneath a tree. Despite his playful demeanour half an hour earlier, he was beginning to look a bit peaky, you suddenly realized. 

“John, is everything alright?” you asked, concerned. His cheeks were pink, probably burnt from his time in the sun without a hat. The skin on his forehead was beaded with sweat, and you noticed that he had started to breathe faster than was normal. 

“Just…got a bit of a headache,” he said, attempting to smile at you. “Bloody hot out here, innit?” You caught his wrist in your hand and felt for his pulse. Quite fast, you thought. 

“What have you had to drink today, love?” you inquired. 

“Bit of coffee this morning, but that’s about all,” he replied, lying back to rest his head against the cool grass. “I’m starting to feel a bit nauseous, Y/N.” 

“I think you might be a bit dehydrated, John,” you speculated. “We should get you something to drink right away, and you need to go inside where it’s cool.” The man beside you groaned with discomfort as his nausea increased. 

“D’you mind if I take my shirt off?” John asked politely. “That might help in the meantime.” Your fingers went to the buttons of his shirt, where you made quick work of undoing them. Your cheeks flushed a bit as you caught sight of the hair that trailed down from his navel, disappearing beneath his trousers. 

“Maybe I should pop over to the café and buy a few bottles of water or something,” you swallowed, your eyes fixed on John’s torso. His arms and chest were nicely toned, so it was obvious that he put time into working out. That was beside the point, though - he was overheated, and needed fluids sooner rather than later. 

“I’ll be fine in a moment,” he promised, mere moments before he sat up and vomited at the base of the tree. 

“Oh, shit,” you cursed, reaching for him. “Get it all up, love.” John braced himself against the ground as he continued to retch, bringing up the contents of his lunch. You patted his back gently, offering him what little support you could at the moment. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the couple from the duck pond coming down the path towards you. You didn’t want to leave John alone right now, but he would need something to drink as soon as possible. 

“I’ll be right back, John,” you assured him. You met the couple on the path and explained the situation. To your relief, the man happily agreed to jog down to the shop and bring back some water. His wife hurried after him with their son in tow, hoping to keep him from seeing your companion in his condition. You returned to John’s side, where you used his balled-up shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow. 

“Once I’ve stopped honking…we should go to the car,” he said weakly. “Sorry to ask it of you, but would you be able to drive me home?” The thought made you instantly anxious; you had your driving license, but you hadn’t had much opportunity to use it as of late. 

“Of course,” you agreed against your better judgement, pushing your fears aside. The situation required it of you, so it had to be done. Two long minutes later, the man from the duck pond returned with three bottles of water and a package of water biscuits. 

“He’ll need to get something plain but salty into his system,” the man explained. “Have you got a vehicle in the car park? I can bring it 'round and park it along the road there,” he pointed, indicating a quiet street a short distance away. 

“We have,” John said miserably, digging in his pocket for the keys. “It’s a black Volvo.” The man pulled out his wallet and handed it to you. 

“Reassurance for you that I won’t take off with the car,” the man smiled, answering the confused look on your face. “Don’t look at the picture on my license, it’s ghastly.” The man took off again, running down the stone path towards the car park. 

“He must be a camel, the way he’s running in this heat,” you exclaimed, receiving a pained laugh from the man beside you. After a minute, John finally sat up. His face was quite red now, and his eyes were bloodshot from the force of his heaves. 

“I’m so sorry,” he groaned, glancing over at you. “I thought it’d be nice to just get out for a few hours, but…” 

“Don’t be daft,” you frowned, placing a hand on his thigh. “This happens to everyone at some point or another, John. I’m not upset at all.” The corner of your mouth turned up slightly in a lopsided smile. “Besides, I’m always up for an adventure.” With a despondent moan, John rested his head against your shoulder. 

“I promise not to throw up on you.” 

“I’ll still be your friend if you do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Next segment will be up in about 10 minutes! Comment below with predictions, hopes and dreams, thoughts about characters, recommendations, edits, etc!


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